


love me (I need more)

by musetrax (muselives)



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 10:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11355861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muselives/pseuds/musetrax
Summary: Betrothed against their wishes, Benvolio and Rosaline must work together to discover who is trying to keep their houses at war.





	1. I got matches, I got bridges, but I got limits

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes the plot of Still Star-Crossed (novel) but overlays it with the TV adaptation as established up to 1x03. Spoilers then for both the novel and the show. Title and chapters reference "Faded" by P.O.S. With thanks as always to Kitoky. Unbetated.

Truchio of Montague lay dead in Verona’s streets for hours unattended. Fallen from a great height, no wound on his body betrayed the duel fought with his kinsman before his untimely end and no sign revealed his treachery against Capulet and Montague alike.

Benvolio gave no outward sign as the Prince’s guard perfunctorily informed his shrewd uncle of Truchio’s strange end. Though the older man responded with the right measure of passion and disdain, behind his eyes the scales were swinging, the life of an illiterate peasant taken at an unexpected but simply inconvenient moment against the measure of fate. His disinterest upon the guard’s leaving was the moment that Benvolio allowed himself to breathe; his uncle had not yet linked Truchio with the event’s in Verona’s city square.

 _And will time out the truth of it all?_ he asked himself, staring out across the familiar courtyard garden.

He saw Rosaline in his mind’s eye. Her horror at the sudden end of her enemy, one who had assaulted her personally, confused and angered him anew. How had a mere serving girl been elevated to the heir of Capulet? How could one who hated him and all Montagues with so much personal conviction waver to something almost like sorrow in the face of death? It could not be as new to her as that.

And so quickly she had returned to herself thereafter, clever as she was often praised to be. Some force in Verona was foolhardy enough to make name both Montague and Capulet enemy in the height of these bloody times. Whatever force had steered Truchio’s hand they must uncover now.

_Else this war never end._

*

Rosaline could not refuse her kinsman’s escort though she had been sorely tempted to try. While so far House Capulet had been spared any new grief from the strange attack in Verona’s city square, she heard tell from the other servants that one of the visiting ambassadors had suffered only an hour’s pains before going to God.

“I go to pray for him,” she had told her aunt and uncle, “And for our own.” Guilanna had looked at her with fury but her uncle had given his leave, bidding Gramio and Lucio escort her to the church.

Her cousins had walked with her, Lucio showing at least enough manners to offer the lady his arm. They spoke little and eyed many men with contempt. _And for this Escalus has made a spectacle of betrothing me to my enemy’s house_ , she thought, head high and gaze fixed on the church steeple afield. _Peace cannot come from falsehood for no man alive believes love can conquer this unending hate._

Though they entered through the door and blessed themselves, neither went farther than the entry while Rosaline brought herself almost to the altar to pray. She gave her laments for the ambassador’s perfunctorily and for the innocents in Verona caught up in their family’s bloodshed more sincerely. Memories of her wounded father being returned to her house only to die in her mother’s arms brought the sharp sting of tears but she kept her eyes on the statue of the Virgin Mother and gathered together the tatters of all her former plans.

Benvolio Montague had hoped to secret her to the convent to spare himself this marriage. Tempted as she had been, she had Livia to think on still. No, together they would find this common enemy and out him, and Escalus would release her from this sham engagement, held intact only in the name of Veronan peace. Then she would see Livia married as her dear sister had always dreamed and then, then, if God had any mercy at all, she would go to convent, her bride price paid, her sister knowing she had not escaped on a darkened highway in shame.

It seemed her noble cousins had tired of the somber air of the church. She sighed before she spotted them not far off, standing at the Capulet mausoleum, very near the golden statue of Juliet. Her feet had already borne her towards them before she saw two strangers standing opposed to them, their hands already on their swords. _Montagues_ , she thought, quickening her pace until she found herself between the men.

*

He knew not where else to turn but Friar Lawerence. Their childhood teacher, his cousin’s confidant, perhaps the only man who believed in (and did not merely pretend at) peace--Benvolio hoped to find the friar in his apothecary to gain his counsel and insight. All thoughts of Truchio and his mysterious patron flew from his head, however, at Rosaline’s scream.

He heard it before he knew it to be hers but the feverish pounding of his heart did not abate when he saw the woman in danger was his betrothed. Instead, his temper flared to see both Capulet and Montague with naked blade sparing before the Capulet crypt, against the Prince’s edict and all pretense of their family’s peace.

Rosaline had flattened herself against the marble base that raised the golden statue of Juliet. Once again, **HARLOT** spread across the statue's belly in thick black paint. Before them, two of Rosaline's kinsman fought with only the barest regard for her safety, their whole focus in attempt to disarm or more likely kill their Montague foes.

“Hold!” he bellowed with such force that the Montagues, Orlino and Marius, seemed momentarily stunned by it.

The Capulets, for their part, were considerably less impressed. Of course his shrewish betrothed recovered first, surging towards him not with thanks but tear-stained cheeks and a furious voice.

“ _Montague_!” she shouted, heedless of their audience as both fists struck his chest. No wilting flower was his bride-to-be he noted with a grimace. Were it anyone else, his sword would have been at their throat but instead he caught her about her arms and held her fast though she struggled in a rage. “Will you give her no rest? She was a _child_ and still you defame her! Who has done this? I will tear their eyes out--!”

“Capulet, _hold_!” She was strong but he was stronger and the shocking display of her temper had only delayed the fighting between their cousins a moment at best. Benvolio saw now that if he did not part them, more blood would be spilled and then what hope would there be of turning their families to a natural truce?

He set the curst harpy aside, slipping past her hands as she grabbed him, his own sword out as he dove into the fray. Back and forth his blade flew, parrying both houses alike and pushing them apart, his feet finally catching Marius’s to trip him as he knocked away his blade. In Orlino’s shock, he landed him with the flat of his blade and made quick work of disarming him as well.

His Capulet enemies seemed unimpressed by this and dove at him despite Rosaline’s cry. They were unfamiliar to him but even less suited to fighting as a pair and when one feinted poorly, the flat of his blade again found his mark.

Though the other child scored his blade over Benvolio’s arm, the Montague’s temper found its compromise in a curled fist sent directly to the rogue’s chin. The other boy started and scrambled to retrieve his unconscious fellow from the ground. “Go to and tell your Lord what I have done,” he bid them, turning to look for his own kin to reproach them.

That was when he found Orlino standing with a dagger held to Rosaline’s neck.

*

Gramio held his brother behind the Montague with a look of utter shock. Rosaline kept her eyes on her kinsman because she found she could not look on Benvolio in all his fury any more than she could stare into the summer’s sun. The last of fair Verona’s youth had flown expediently to her aid despite her insults and now stood deadly still, his own gaze locked on the man holding the thin blade to her throat.

“Do not bid me run, _cousin_ ,” the man behind her spat, “Your blushing bride spares you no love and I am not so weak and womanish as to forget my honor--”

Only at that moment did Rosaline’s eyes slide to Benvolio’s and with that look, they moved in unison. The lady of House Capulet threw back her head with such force as to break her captor’s nose and as he shrieked in pain, Benvolio was upon him.

Rosaline staggered towards Gramio as Benvolio flew at his kinsman in a rage. The other’s sword came up and the two fought as old friends who knew each other well. Matched almost stroke for stroke, Orlino scored a hit through Benvolio’s doublet and her heart leapt into her throat.

He redoubled his effort until his foot swept the rogue and landed him prone. The tip of his blade pressed into the flushed meat of Orlino’s cheek as Benvolio bid him, “ _Yield_.”

“Would you kill me?” the younger man snarled. “Pale shadow! False heir--!”

The barest flick of his wrist brought the sword across his cousin’s cheek. The man cried out and the gouge bled freely, red and deep enough that it would surely scar.

“I love you less than I love her,” the Montague spoke, his voice uncharacteristically cold, his words washing over her like ice despite the summer’s heat, “And if you do not yield, I’ll lay your body at the Prince’s feet myself Orlino, do I make myself plain?”

The man snarled once more than threw his sword aside. Once Benvolio’s blade withdrew, he twisted himself to his feet with animal ferocity and his companion joined him once more as both men beat a hasty retreat.

Now as the Montague turned, Rosaline saw he freely bled from his side. Starting toward him with a gasp, her handkerchief was out and pressed into his side without delay. She heard and felt Benvolio hiss but he had regained his composure and he spoke to Gramio again. “Go to and take your fellow to your master’s house. Your mistress is safe with me.”

Rosaline started straight at that. “My lord!” she protested.

“We won’t be long unchaperoned, my beloved,” he answered and sharp blue eyes began to fog with pain and sorrow and a weariness she knew all too well. A nod directed her attention hence to the friars who only now were coming to their aid. “Besides,” his lowered voice almost held his usual irreverence again, “We still have secrets we must endeavour to keep.”


	2. tell me what's impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes the plot of Still Star-Crossed (novel) but overlays it with the TV adaptation as established up to 1x03. Spoilers then for both the novel and the show up to the current episode. Title and chapters reference "Faded" by P.O.S. With thanks as always to Kitoky. Unbetated.

Benvolio shed his doublet with such perfunctory grace that his newly betrothed could not help the unkind thought the gesture was well practiced. In charity she amended, perhaps he had bared his skin before Friar Lawrence or his family’s doctor for such scrapes as he had now but as she turned her back to the men, she saw no obvious scar on the lean youth’s bared chest or arms. Only two types of men escaped such marks in this bloodthirsty city, the careful or the soft, and Benvolio of Montague was not soft.

Nor could she rightly call him careful, knowing him as little as she did. The haughty youth who had drank before the altar, who insulted her then still offered her his hand once they had agreed at least their cousins were fools to marry. God, how had that passed so long ago? Had she really stood at sweet Juliet’s tomb?

 _Defiled_ , she thought to herself as Friar Lawrence discussed a poultice with his patient, _Once again._ Whoever had seen fit to disgrace the flower of the Capulets at the Prince’s memorial had not been content to let their art shout once then fade into the night. Lord Montague had paid a handsome price to set the statue right before it was moved to Capulet’s crypt; now it was marred again, and with the same remark.

It bespoke a very personal vengeance, either for the subject of the statue or for its golden partner who gaze mournfully from across the way. Romeo with his dream-filled eyes and sweet sighing smiles had not been quite the lover of women his companions had been, but perhaps she was not the only maid he had failed to court before he alighted on his five-day bride.

If not, then woe to Capulet and Montague, for the mysterious force that stirred Truchio’s hate may also be behind this writer’s hand. _And then this war will never end._

“You can turn about, Capulet.” The familiar voice drew her back to Earth. “God love you, your modesty is still intact, and I am decent once again.”

“As decent as you’ll ever be,” Rosaline replied cooly and her new betrothed could only raise his hands in despair of protest for she spoke straightaway to the friar, who regarded her with measured gaze. “Father, did you know Truchio of Montague?”

“No better than the other members of my flock.”

Benvolio snorted. “He did not strike me a prayerful man.”

“Faith is a strange and oft private thing,” the friar replied, winding the remains of a bandage before returning it to his cupboards. “I am a confessor in Verona almost more than both your years together. I know much of the shame and heartache your two houses wrought.”

“Unless you plan to make full confession to us yourself," Rosaline cut in sharply, "Speak not of secrets your oaths must keep. We seek you for intelligence you can give plainly, if it is not beyond you.”

“Forgive me daughter,” Friar Lawrence addressed her, eyes held fast to hers, “But there seems something rather like resentment in your words.”

Rosaline could not help but laugh. It was a cold, mirthless sound that was mercifully eaten by the flickering candles and strange cupboards of the friar’s private rooms. “You married them, against all sense!” She did not have to clarify who she meant to immediately bow both men’s heads in thought and shame. “And we, their witnesses, spoke not. We share a twisted knot of guilt between us for their deaths. Truly, for that, I resent us all.”

It surprised her little that Benvolio recovered first from her rebuke. The young Montague shuffled then straightened and in the proud lift of his chin, she almost saw a man who would have been his cousin’s lieutenant, trusted and loved above all, save a shared brother. Now he stood here Montague’s heir--if they lived long enough and Verona did not burn.

“Father, it is true you know Verona’s comings and goings as few else. We ask not that you compromise your vows but only that you speak as a neighbor and a friend. There must be something that you know.”

Head still bowed, the old man answered, “God’s truth, I know not.”

They stood like that a moment longer, Benvolio and Rosaline finding each other’s eye while watching the friar stand still between them, lost in thought or perhaps even prayer. The faraway look in his eye faded slowly as he spoke again. “I was arrogant and in my pride, I saw the Lord’s hand where only rosy youth did glow. My wisdom should have tempered them and thus stayed my hand or loosed my tongue.”

Rosaline barely softened at his admission but her gaze stayed with him. “Faith, father, though God’s love may conquer all, no two mere mortals can stem this tide of hate with pretty dresses and empty words.” With great determination, she kept any tremor from her voice as she added cautiously, “And if you should have the ear of those to hear it--”

“I am no confidant to the Prince,” he interrupted but there was charity in his look and voice. “Nor do I think your uncles will revolt from his will in this. How strange that as bloomed July, before me stood a Montague and Capulet, mad for marriage, and now August wanes with two just as mad to not.”

“As my fair betrothed will attest, good friar,” Benvolio interjected lightly, “We are not matched at all but by forces greater than ourselves. At least those two who stood before you loved each other to their end. We are as night to day from them.”

Though he spoke with all his usual irreverence, Rosaline thought she saw a very real pain in Benvolio’s eyes. True, this was not the first day she had stood at her cousin’s grave but when in all this madness had any of them the chance to grieve? And now, here they stood, reunited for the first time since that fateful night.

Something keen in the friar’s eyes glinted in the candle’s light as he looked between Capulet and Montague. “Think you not that you could learn to love each other? Or at least the peace that this union would bring?”

The young Montague snorted. “Peace for Verona only. Juliet at least had a civil tongue in her head.”

Any forgiveness his earlier defense might have earned him whisked away at his words. Her spine straightened as she added just as lightly, “And I have none of my cousin’s fatal weakness for Montague’s, I thank God for that.”

“Nor for any man,” Benvolio rejoined quickly, “For what man of Verona could warm you as well as your darling pride?”

“None,” she agreed, idly smoothing down her skirts, “For men in Verona have far more skill at leaving ladies cold in their graves.”

Shaking his head, she swore she heard the friar murmur, “As night from night.” Still he moved between and past them to the door, which he held open with the courtesy of a bow. “Go then with God, for I do not know how I can help you. By his grace, you two may yet uproot the grasping vine of your families’ hate that strangles Verona still.”

Benvolio looked at the friar with an amazement that bordered quite close to a betrayal. He dropped into a mocking bow sending Rosaline through the door first but hardly followed after before long legs overtook her strides and he walked out in front of her, seemingly off into the night.

*

He stopped short of Romeo’s statue, staring up at the golden face. The waxing moon offered poor light and cast strange shadows that deepened his cousin’s lamenting look.

Likewise Rosaline found her place beneath her cousin’s statue but did not pause in reflection as he had done. Instead, she found a grave digger’s cart and with little ceremony wheeled it to the statue’s base.

The commotion was enough to turn Benvolio from his thoughts and his attention fell to her as he asked incredulously, “What _are_ you doing?”

Actions spoke on the Capulet lady’s behalf. The same handkerchief she had spent on him, now hopelessly stained by his blood, came out and scrubbed in earnest at darkened paint. The fervor of the motion almost sent the wheelbarrow rolling and Benvolio had to lunge to keep it and its passenger in place.

“ _Woah!_ ” One hand on the small of her back, the other clutched a side as he asked again, “What are you doing, Capulet?”

“Cleaning,” Rosaline answered, either oblivious or unconcerned with his touch. Her hands still moved with apparent force over the blackened paint that defaced the statue once more. It struck him now that the energy of her movement belied an economy and forethought that spoke to how often she must have done a similar task. _A servant and a Capulet._

“You’ll ruin your handkerchief before you set that statue to right.” The stubborn woman ignored him and his heart panged with frustration as much as echoes of his own grief. “Come down from there. I promise I will have it cleaned by morning.”

“And what is your word to me?” she asked, not even bothering to turn round. He took only the smallest satisfaction in seeing he was right and that she practically shredded the fabric in her hands away continuing her impossible task.

“It’s more of my uncle’s money it will pain him to waste,” he tried instead, noting that he had finally succeeded in making the harpy pause. “I know you believe this done by a Montague’s hand but on my life Capulet, it was not mine. Remember our alliance. If we do not find the architect of Truchio’s plan, the Prince will not relent until our two Houses become one.”

When Rosaline did not respond, he cast about for some other argument before he realized she had finally stilled to reflect on Juliet’s face. Her stark admission with its implication came back to him now. He had stood as Romeo’s witness after only a token protest and faster pursued the bottom of a glass than his beloved cousin that fateful night when Romeo went to grieve his bride. Mercutio, their clown, had not known Romeo’s secret before he died; he had only joined his voice to Benvolio’s to urge their friend to turn his longings from chaste Rosaline.

“Will you help me down?”

The question startled him so much he wondered if she had had to ask it of him twice. Perhaps her request for assistance was the best acknowledgement he could have of their tentative pact. He did, however, without further hesitation, giving her his arm so she could safely bring her feet to ground.

A squeeze and then her hand lifted away and she was beside him. He steeled himself with a smirk as he met those dark, guarded eyes. “Now I am at a loss to find you a chaperone, for I had thought we would part with Friar Lawrence on better terms.”

“Perhaps I should simply make my way without one.” She further stalled by moving to push the cart back to where she had found it only to draw short. “Montague, look.”

Had she not drawn his gaze, he would not have known to mark the spot she knelt over know. “The painter spilled--” he dropped to touch where the paint had stained along the statue’s base, “--but I’ve seen aught that leaves this mark.”

“This is such a pattern as made by a lady’s train.” The shock so evident in her voice surprised him. “I have made such a mistake myself when Livia spilled wine on our uncle’s kitchen floor. The defiler is a woman.”

He waited a moment longer for her to say more but it seemed that revelation was enough. Finally he took placed his hands on her upper arms and rose, bringing her with him. His earlier wounds smarted slightly at the exertion and it was a welcome mercy that she offered no resistance. “Come, let’s away,” he urged her. “I’ll see you at least as far as Capulet’s gate.”

And much to his amazement and concern, she did not refuse.

*

“ _What?_ ”

Livia heard the imperious tone of her aunt’s voice ring out across the halls and immediately snuck away from her task to join the other serving girl who had crowded at the dining hall door.

Inside stood cousins Gramio and Luccio, looking rather shamefaced. It did not take Livia long to realize they stood before her aunt without Rosaline in their stead.

All that kept her from flying to Rosaline’s room to confirm her sister’s safety was what her aunt said next. “Paid you _heed_ to that _Montague_? And left our niece, our _heir_ without escort, at his mercy?”

Livia’s heart was in her throat. _Alone? With the Montague?_ Her sister was wiser than that! How could she have agreed to forsake their cousins’ protection, especially (she noted with some despair) when their had clearly been some fight that split their doublets and left each young man sporting reddened wounds.

“In faith, my lady,” murmured Gramio, hat in hand, “They did head straightaway to Friar Lawrence to seek his counsel and his escort.”

Lady Capulet looked somewhere between fury and horror at this remark. Fortunately her husband spoke up, admonishing them, “What wounds will Montagues give you that will compare to mine if she has been dishonored? Go, send three guards to fetch her and when you are stitched, return to me with them and her if you ever wish to stand in my sight again.”

The other girl barely met her gaze before they both flew from the door, fearful of being discovered. Livia did not return to her task but instead ran through the serving passageways to avoid Guilianna’s gaze, the Capulet guard house being her aim. No servant or kin would allow her past Capulet gates in light of this report, and in fact the whole house seemed stirred by this news although it was a murmured hush of agitation. Some wore flashing looks of those ready to throw over this peace; few looked genuinely concerned for the young maiden of the house.

Livia’s passion was worn plainly on her face. She did not cry only because neither she nor her sister had cried since the terrible night of their father’s death. Even their mother’s loss, that of a woman who died slowly of a broken heart, had left them both only with the cold revelation of their status in the world, their belongings covered in drape cloth and their windows shuttered as their uncle’s carriage waited to collect them, not as nieces but as servants--

 _Enough!_ Livia twisted at her apron as she paced along the gate, keeping better watch than the guardsman in his tower, she was certain. Rosaline had assured her she would not leave Verona without her, despite her plain desire and her full confession she would rather join the nunnery than cleave to a man.

And oh! Now she was betrothed to the most wretched man of all, one she could never hope to love. Alone with him and at his mercy unless the good friar or his novices had intervened. It was too easy for Livia’s thoughts to go round and round with her feet as she flew back and forth.

Finally she caught sight of them and punishment or no, she cried out and pushed out the barred door, feeling as if she were a child again as she charged straight into Rosaline’s arms.

Her sister’s hands came up to hold her head and stroke her back, her voice immediately soft and low and soothing, until another low voice stated, “Ladies, I take my leave of you then.”

Only then did her temper strike enough that Livia withdrew to shout, “ _You!_ ” She half-leapt at the Montague before she knew what she did and was almost as surprised to find Rosaline held her back by the arm.

“Peace, Livia, he is a friend,” she whispered, and yet the Montague looked more surprised than her at the word. Rosaline looked not to him as she spoke to her sister, “He saved me from two of his kinsman and brought me safely home.”

Turning on her in disbelief, she lowered her voice but still spoke too harsh for whisper, “You are unchaperoned!”

“Through no fault of my own! And I am with my betrothed who I am madly in love with.” Even Benvolio noted the sarcasm in those light words and looked more at ease for them, while simultaneously playing pained. “Let me take care of Uncle. I do not want to linger here.”

The guardsman, either seeing the reunion between sisters or noting their escort, hung back at the gate but kept his hand on his sword. Most interestingly, Livia noted that the Montague’s hand remained uninterested in his own, that he only noted the man before he looked back to his betrothed. “I will tell my uncle of Orlino’s knavery and hold to the promise I made you on our cousin’s behalf.”

“Thank you,” Rosaline replied and Livia marked how truly her sister meant the simple words.

Now she looked between them while Rosaline interfered, her sister using her grip on her arm to steer her away. She was far less than moved when the Montague offered her a rakish grin that seemed almost to clown before he went his way. “Sister, what is this?” she asked Rosaline as she let her maneuver her back through Capulet’s gate.

“He saved me, Livia,” her sister replied softly, her eyes already on the house with its servant and its Lord and Lady sweeping out the front gate. “He is at least an ally, if not a friend.”

Before Livia could even fully express her amazement at that, the household descended upon them.

*

Escalus cursed and nearly knocked a decanter of wine from the servant’s hand standing up so abruptly from his chair. His sister watched him carefully, unable to suppress a stab of disappointment at yet another childish outburst from Verona’s Prince.

That was not to say there was no merit to his anger or even the outward show of it. But his eyes once again held the doubt and regret that was always stirred where Rosaline of Capulet was concerned. Her brother had loved that maid for far too long, endangering their house and their throne perhaps more than any Montague had ever done. She held her own mask as the servant scampered off and continued cutting her mid-meal into perfect portions to consume.

“Escalus, this cannot surprise you,” she addressed him familiarly since the departure of the servant had left them alone. “Peace between Capulet and Montague was always a fragile thing and with Juliet’s monument again defaced--”

“Will they never learn that their petty squabbles will be as nothing to the hell that will rain down on them if Venice or Milan breaches our gates?” Escalus had strode quickly over to the window where he looked out over his city, finally leaning against his arm. “That they will lose more than son or daughter, and have worse to fear than who shall have the better fields next summer if we are conquered?”

Isabella stood and moved to her brother’s side. “Old Capulet and Montague have nothing left but pride. This marriage and the peace it secures is far more real and pressing to them than the idea of other cities ever breaching Veronan walls.”

“They are fools.”

“They are petty kings in your stead.” Her brother straightened up at that and though her empty stomach fluttered, Isabella stood her ground. “I speak only as a loyal adviser, Your Grace. Your reign is young and they are storied men of considerable power. That power, as you grasp, means nothing to the Doge who now comes for the body of his ambassador. Why not make Lord Capulet and Lord Montague pay the price for the Crown?”

Though he had held her gaze as she spoke, his eye seemed to roam over her face as Escalus reproached her, “You are my sister, Isabella, and not an adviser of my court. Father gave you much leave in his final days but I will determine what is best for soothing the Doge.”

A lesser woman might have thrown up her hands in ill-suited rage. Isabella instead kept any ice from her smile as she inclined her head in silent acquiescence. She waited for him to return to the table before taking her place. The servant had returned and moved immediately to take her chair for her. She noted Escalus’ distraction while he ate and knew he thought not of the Doge and how to appease their ally half as much as he thought on Rosaline so near to danger and disgrace.

For that reason, she resolved to summon her friend to the palace. Rosaline had praised Benvolio of Montague when she knew it would bring Escalus pain but Isabella suspected she was in love with Escalus as she had ever been when they were both girls. She needed the truth of these matters from the direct most source. It was only a stroke of genius that she thought to add how well she should like to see Livia as well before she sent her servant off.

Two ladies of House Capulet, both childhood friends, raised from ruin back to their rightful place. _I will see them fully restored,_ she promised herself, her ladies-in-waiting falling into step behind her. _And in their redemption, I shall secure my place._


	3. it's feast or famine, I honestly kinda hate both

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes the plot of Still Star-Crossed (novel) but overlays it with the TV adaptation as established up to 1x03. Spoilers then for both the novel and the show up to the current episode. Title and chapters reference "Faded" by P.O.S. With thanks as always to Kitoky. Unbetated.

Rosaline’s late return meant Livia had no time for her dear Paris but she could not begrudge her sister that. In fact, Rosaline had not let go of her arm in all her journey to Juliet’s old room and though she had turned down the sheets for Rosaline through force of servant’s habit, it was as a sister, frightened but newly comforted, that Livia had joined her in their cousin’s bed. The sisters slept soundly with their hands clasped as they had done when they were small children.

A servant awoke them, almost carefully ignoring Livia who realized her aunt would have her head for sleeping here-- _late!_ \--and missing her chores. Rosaline rose quickly and composed herself however as she was told a messenger from the Palace waited below for her.

They made up for lost time with Livia’s assistance and soon the young lady who would be Capulet’s heir and a Montague bride swept down in all the state that should be expected of their fine, old house. The servant made a low, pretty bow before stating that Princess Isabella and not Prince Escalus requested the honor of not one but both neices of Lord Capulet for a late morning’s walk.

“Me?” It was all she could manage and so it fell to Rosaline to accept it for them both. Her voice became a harsher whisper as the messenger left, her hand clutching Rosaline’s arm as she asked, “But I am a servant now.”

Her sister’s eyes flashed and Livia remembered herself. Straightening up, she almost made her excuses before going to the kitchen but Rosaline grabbed her hand. “If the princess has asked for you, our uncle dare not deny her. Go, and ask the nurse to help you dress while I speak to him.”

Livia rejoiced at this providence for once the nurse was summoned to her, she could ask the only other confidante she had of her beloved’s health.

“He fares well,” the older woman said as she helped Livia out of her dress. She frowned in disapproval at the deep green gown Livia selected but held out her hands to assist in dressing her anyway. “That young master has recovered both his vigor and wits, and paces more than a cat at an empty saucer for cream. I know not how long a’fore he must make journey to Mantua to show his kin he is no ghost. And Lord! How will he convince them he is not such a spectre?”

“Perhaps he will hold their hand and tell old tales so that they will know their brave Paris lives.” Livia spoke almost playfully as she gave the great gown a swing, noting with pleasure the sweep of the skirts. It was less grand than Rosaline’s but suited well to standing up before the princess.

The old nurse _harumphed_. “Careful child, where you speak his name, or else my mistress,” but she trailed off, only looking out to the hall as if she thought Guilanna herself might suddenly descend on them.

Livia realized only a moment later she felt the same flutter of fear although she was soon allowed relief when no such visitation occurred. Laughing, she reached out and took both of the old nurse’s hands with a squeeze. “Will you tell him where I’ve gone? And let him know I will walk in the gardens with him tonight?”

She was too young, too happy--perhaps too much more like her cousin Juliet than her sister Rosaline to realize that though the nurse gave her, “Aye,” the look that followed her as she rushed down the stair was one of both memory sweet and sorrowful. She was too happy with her adventure to notice her sister’s dark look either before she took her arm. “Come sister and away,” she said, still laughing, “We shall not keep her Grace!”

*

Nearly a thousand times in the carriage, Rosaline felt herself wishing to tell Livia all. The bump of the cobblestone and gruff look of their kinsmen stopped her but her sister also talked so gaily that Rosaline could not bring herself to unburden her heart now that Livia could finally smile.

“ _Restore my sister and I shall marry that Montague,_ ” she had promised her uncle as Livia had prepared.

“ _Marry?_ ” Her uncle had looked at her with a keen and piercing eye. “ _You shall love him, adore him, until all Verona believes this lie as well as they believe the sun rises to end the night._ ”

Adoration was the furthest feeling from Rosaline’s heart as she thought of that Montague rogue, first standing before their cousins as they were to be wed, then in all his cold fury when he had come to her defense in the graveyard last night. An ally, Benvolio Montague, if only because he understood as well as her the fate to which they had been consigned. But could she consider the man who laid blame for all this death at her feet a true friend?

Rosaline’s introspection was interrupted by Livia’s delighted gasp and she kept any thoughtfulness from her features as they came through the gate. The princess and her retinue were ready to meet them on the lawn and once the footman had helped them down, both curtsied deeply before the stately young woman who had once been their childhood friend.

“I thank you for indulging me,” Isabella smiled. “Would you join me for a walk about the grounds? Or would perhaps you prefer we go a-riding?”

Memories of the royal stables and a prank played upon the prince when they were little seized Rosaline’s heart. Ah, now here were feelings plain if wholly unwelcome. She kept her face a mask as Livia confessed she was not much a rider though her sister showed the good sense to not confess why.

Isabella was all that was gracious and courtly as their party crossed through the castle to the gardens proper. Rosaline felt her heart beat in her throat as she feared Escalus may appear and offer them some greeting; she felt it would be more than she could bear.

Thankfully no such incident came to pass and as Isabella led, her ladies-in-waiting fell patiently behind them in step, affording the three women as much privacy as they could ever believe to have. “I believe I owe you both apologies,” the princess began, earning her listeners’ immediate amazement. “When we were small, we all clung to each other’s skirts. My mother and your mother were friends, if not as dear as we felt ourselves to be. But your father passed and mine fell ill and I gave all my thoughts to court, leaving none for you. I am sorry.”

“This apology is more than we are due, your grace,” Rosaline replied quickly, worried how Livia might respond with greater candor if given space. “Childhood friends may remain in our hearts but the obligations of your office must, of course, come first.”

“Why do you call on us now?” Livia asked, throwing over her sister’s plans. Rosaline could not even chastise her with a glare for Isabella had placed herself firmly between them both to lead.

The princess, however, took no offense and did not mask her sorrow. “Since Juliet’s passing, you are restored.”

“My sister is,” Livia corrected, “Not I.”

Rosaline could think of nothing else to do but take Isabella’s arm. She surprised the princess but her former friend did not pull away, only offered her regard. “My uncle would not restore us to our birthright if it were not for these current schemes.”

“And which are those? Your engagement, Rosaline?”

“Yes.” Emboldened by Livia’s surprise and Isabella’s focused look, she held the gaze of the latter and asked, “Do you think truly that even with the loss of his only daughter and his heir my uncle gave one thought to us? We were servants until your brother lighted on this plot.”

“To end war in Verona and unite your feuding houses.” Now the princess’s tone brokered warning and Rosaline remembered herself.

Removing her hands, she squared her shoulders but spoke softly as she said, “I, too, wish to end the bloodshed, your grace, but this false union would be like building a castle on shifting sands. You must see it is unwise.”

“Would you have me say this to Escalus, my prince? I am not his counsel, Rosaline. Moreover, I am obediant to the crown.”

The ladies turned through the garden in silence a while after that rebuke. Rosaline had never felt more distant from someone she had once truly called friend.

After another turn, they came to an open lawn and though Isabella’s posture had not softened, there was something in her eyes that had. “What a poor apology is this, to invite you here and admit I was too cowardly to prize your friendship when you fell below your station, and to pain you by speaking of an engagement you do not want.”

Rosaline was less able to keep a curve from her shoulders as they settled under that weight. “You owe us no apologies, your grace,” she repeated firmly.

“Ah, because it would be beneath me? I apologize as your friend,” she turned suddenly to Rosaline, meeting her full gaze, “Not as your princess.”

Turning slightly again, Isabella held out a hand to each girl who reach out reflexively until they stood an almost triangle with hands clasped. Livia looked at Isabella with wonderment while Rosaline’s heart would not allow her such unfettered joy. “I cannot cross the Prince but I am, I swear to you, your ever loyal friend,” Isabella declared. “I will not abandon you to the scraping claws of Verona again. Please remember that, if ever you need my help.”

Too shocked, Rosaline could only accept the squeeze of her hand before their connection was broken and they moved again by habit more than thought. They travelled on in silence until they crossed the garden, then the foyer, and last the entry until both Capulets sat in their family carriage once more.

*

Not for the first time since he crossed Capulet’s gate did Benvolio find himself wishing he had fortified himself with something stronger than water this morning. Pity he had prized a clear head over one filled with the confidence a few rounds of stout ale could bring. Every nerve sang that he was surrounded by his enemy, not just them men but the women and servants too, each of whom looked on him with full knowledge of his name.

_Montague._

And hardly that, it felt, for his uncle had barely taken his rebuke of Orlino seriously. He had only slightly regained the man’s favor by saying he intended to make a better showing of this engagement and that he would call on his betrothed this morning to join him in some public space. Where, his uncle had cared not, which suited Benvolio’s real purposes better than he could have supposed.

However, he had not expected to face the icy, withering gaze of Lady Capulet for near an hour as he awaited Rosaline’s return. To leave without his lone Capulet ally would only mean having to double back later or so he had told himself when bolstering his courage to remain.

In all his relief, he could not help but spring to his feet when Rosaline and her sister Livia appeared. Gone were the servants’ smocks, he noted, bowing as they courtsied in greeting.

“My dearest,” Rosaline addressed him a little too brightly, having hardly acknowledged her aunt, “What a pleasant surprise.”

Benvolio would have been more shocked by the address if he had not noticed the fury in her aunt’s eyes. Immediately, he reached for his charm and answered in kind, “I am glad to hear my visit gives you pleasure rather than pain after my cousin’s ill-manners last night, my lady.”

“You are quite the gallant. It seems we must set the example for our families and model peace so all Verona may follow.”

“Wisely put, beloved. And so to that end, I had come to offer you some light refreshement in the city garden--or after you have taken lunch, perhaps a ride afield if it suits you?”

The youngest Capulet looked between all parties with a not-so-secret delight. “My sister is a great rider,” she interjected, looking pleased to have something to say in this conversation while her aunt remained completely mute. “Though she has not much had the pleasure of late.”

“Then it is decided. I can return with a good mare in an hour’s time.”

Rosaline surprised him with a light and airy, “Why wait? I am not much hungry now and if you have provisions prepared, they may be enjoyed after our ride.”

“And who will ride with you?” Lady Capulet stood, sweeping back her long black train with one hand. The gesture was at once imperious and childish,a rather strange effect.

Rosaline was unbowed and stated calmly, “I will ask my uncle if he can spare my cousins to accompany us.”

The Lady of House Capulet gave a high, sharp laugh. “One Montague alone with a Capulet entourage? A fool’s agreement.”

His temper rose and he did not hide the challenge in his look or words as he swept into a bow. “Lady Capulet, your niece’s safety and honor are paramount. I would gladly ride with whatever guard you felt befitted your heir.”

Her incisive gaze snapped to him. “Shall I call for three dozen men and see how well you choke on those words, Montague?”

Fear shot through him, primal and raw. Capulets hated Montagues more than they feared the prince and he stood in their foyer with naught but a sword and dagger if they turned on him.

Then proud Rosaline's visage became clear as she stood shoulder to shoulder with him. “Challenge the finest swordsman in Verona and if you survive him, die on the prince’s gallows? I pray none of my cousins are fool enough to dare it.”

Benvolio was sure the compliment was meant to further provoke her aunt but a glance at Rosaline suggested no false exaggeration in the appelate. Half of him warmed with pride while the other half stayed cold in shock. _Acknowledged and defended by a Capulet. Has it truly come to this?_

But he could not let her have all the granduer of this performance and so he turned away from Lady Capulet and took Rosaline’s hand, bringing up the knuckles just so he could brush them with a kiss. “On my honor, beloved, I will not quarrel with any kin of yours again,” he told her as she stared at him, her dark eyes slightly wider than he expected for such a play-act. “So they need have no fear of me, as a swordsman or a man.”

Did he imagine it or did the chaste Rosaline _blush_ at such a veiled remark? She covered it with brisk tones, holding his gaze even as she told her aunt, “I will ask for Lucio and Gramio, and pray my uncle give them a chance to redeem themselves.” Now she looked away and Benvolio released her hand, watching with amusement as the rest of her turned away as well. He wondered how long until she’d have the courage to look him in the eye like that again.

Livia was as delighted as her aunt was enraged. All courtseys and bows were given before everyone moved to take their leave. He caught another half a look between the sisters as he let them pass before him and he wished it had been Rosaline’s half instead of her sister’s although her teasing wonderment did bolster him at least as well as an ale.

So it was with an extra flourished he wished the Lady Livia a good day and an amused smirk that he looked to Rosaline before she physically pushed past him towards the stair. “I must speak with my uncle,” she offered as her excuse, but he remained smirking at the bottom of the stair, the servants and guards now no more fearful to him than they would be if met on the street, leaning on the banister as he awaited her return.


End file.
